


Did you want to forget about life with me tonight?

by ohmybgosh



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: also steve's parents are so fun to write, and i love robin, i love awkward dumb and good hearted steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:52:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmybgosh/pseuds/ohmybgosh
Summary: For Steve, accomplishing a simple task takes several tries.





	Did you want to forget about life with me tonight?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: After all that happens, Billy’s alive and adjusting. He comes to Steve’s place mainly for comfort, he’ll usually chill out on a couch or at the dining table, quiet and with a Walkman on. He’ll talk to steve sometimes, but usually he just lays back and listens to Steve talk. He’s mostly unresponsive but one day Steve says something and makes him laugh.
> 
> Thank you for the prompt! Let me know what you think and head over to my tumblr if you want to send prompts or just chat :) 
> 
> The title and summary are from the song Forget About Life by Alvvays

The first time, Steve found him by accident. He was driving home at night after closing up the video store. He took a long time to close - _too long_ , Robin teased him - and she and Keith both thought it was because he forgot things or got distracted. And truthfully that was often the case, but he also got jumpy alone; every sound was too sharp and too loud and sometimes he had to press his back against the wall and put his hands over his ears and breathe until his heart stopped pounding. It was one thing to be scared of monsters from another dimension, but to be scared of people - that was something new to Steve. 

That night, Steve almost hit him. Steve was rounding the corner, heading down his street, when a hunched figure popped into the stream of his headlights.

“ _Shit_.” He slammed the brakes, tires squealing, and came to a stop nearly at the end of his own driveway. 

The figure jumped, raised an arm to shield their eyes from the high beams. 

“Billy?”

Steve rolled the window down, and Billy came reluctantly to the driver side. His face was pale and his eyes looked red and exhausted.

“You scared me,” Steve said with a breathless laugh. “Thought you were a Russian spy.”

It was a joke, sort of, but Billy didn’t laugh, just looked over his shoulder, down the dark and winding road, the trees tall and twisted, casting eldritch shadows in the lone glow of the headlights. 

“You alright?” Steve asked slowly. 

“Yeah.” Billy looked at his feet, put his hands in his pockets. 

“You wanna come over?” The question poured out of Steve’s lips before he could really think about it. 

“Ok,” Billy said quietly, and it made Steve’s throat close up, because the word had nothing behind it, no desire to go or stay, no feeling, just a meek little sound. 

He rounded the front of Steve’s car, shoulders hunched, and slowly climbed into the passenger seat.

“So, uh,” Steve said, pulling up his driveway. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

He winced inwardly, could almost see Robin rolling her eyes at him. _Steve Harrington: you suck._

Billy crossed his arms around his middle, hugging himself tight. 

“Just walking,” he murmured. 

Steve nodded, stopping in front of his house, and turned the car off. He hopped out, bound around the Beamer and held the door open, as a habit. Billy gave him a strange look but climbed out, following Steve to the front door and into the house. 

It was dark, Steve flicked the lights on. A soft glow touched the top of the stairs; he knew Mom was home, couldn’t be sure about Dad. 

“Hungry?” Steve asked, toeing his sneakers off and padding across the cream-colored carpet, through the dining room and into the kitchen. Billy trailed behind him, still hugging himself, looking around with a half-hearted curiosity. 

“Got some lasagna,” Steve said over his shoulder, pulling open the fridge. Mom left a note on the leftovers: _Sweetheart, microwave for 6 minutes, let it cool! xoxo Mom_

He quickly swept the note aside, but Billy wasn’t paying attention; he leaned against the kitchen counter, several paces apart from Steve, looking at his feet. He’d taken his shoes off at the door, and his socks were mismatched, one with a hole, his big toe peeking out. He didn’t seem to notice. 

Steve shrugged, and cut two squares of lasagna, placing both on one plate and popping them into the microwave. 

Billy jumped at the _beep_ of the start button. He blinked, looking like he was miles away, eyes watery. 

“Sorry,” Steve said. He rubbed the back of his neck, watching the minutes count down on the microwave, the lasagna slowly spinning round and round. Steve chewed on his fingernails during those six minutes, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t, and the microwave _dinged!_ and he jumped to grab the plate, snatching some forks out of a drawer along the way. 

He led Billy into the dining room, taking a seat at the table. Billy stood for a moment, looking from the chair a comfortable distance away to Steve, who, Steve just realized, feeling like an idiot, still had just one plate. 

“Family style,” Steve said with a smile, waving Billy over with his fork.

Billy’s blue eyes cast down at the floor, a crease in his forehead, his brow knit into one pained line. 

Shit, should’ve thought that one through. 

“I almost never eat with my parents,” Steve said quickly. He shoved a forkful of lasagna into his mouth, almost to get himself to shut up. It burned and his eyes watered, but he swallowed thickly. He lowered his voice a tad. “Mom cooks in the afternoon, and then never eats it, she likes wine and prescription meds instead. And Dad’s usually out.”

Usually, sometimes though, Dad wasn’t, and then they had to eat together, and Steve had to answer so many questions and sit through so many backhanded remarks about what a disappointment he was that he usually ended up in his bedroom, headphones on and eyes shut tight, trying to will away the overwhelming sense of self-loathing and loneliness. It had gotten a bit better, though, with Robin. She came over once a week, usually Fridays when neither of them had to be in on Saturday. Mom liked Robin, kept passing approving looks at Steve from across the dining room table over her glass of red wine. Dad had only met her once, but wrinkled his nose at the door when she left and said she was strange. 

Billy took a seat beside Steve, picking up the second fork. Steve hadn’t seen him up close, not since the last time he came into Scoops, in the first days of summer, before all of this. He’d only seen Billy in passing since, dropping off Max at the arcade, hovering outside the video store, waiting patiently for Max, who liked to come in to bother Steve for free candy. Up close, now, he could see scars, a few old ones he recognized, but new ones too, burn marks on his hand, fork wobbling slightly in his grip, white lines that cut jaggedly across his scalp, buzzed hair growing back slowly.

Billy met his eyes, for a second, then looked away, down at the polished wood of the dining room table. 

They ate, Steve shoving one-sided conversation at Billy, telling him about work, about not getting into school, about being held hostage under the Starcourt Mall, about everything he could think of. They finished eating in a few minutes, but Billy made no move to leave, so Steve kept talking. Billy nodded along, not meeting Steve’s eyes, but Steve could tell he was listening. 

Billy left after an hour, refusing a ride, and pausing at the doorway to murmur, “Thanks, Harrington.”

Without thinking, Steve said, as Billy was crossing the threshold, “Come over anytime!”

Billy paused, nodded slightly, and walked out the door. 

Steve didn’t expect him to come back. 

He was surprised, therefore, when a few days later Billy showed up at the front door, looking about as lost as he had the night before. 

Steve was lounging on the couch, listening to music with his headphones on, staring up at the ceiling. Dad worked late that night, but Mom was in the kitchen, glass of wine in hand, oven mitt over the other. 

She opened the door, abandoning the oven mitt, and through his headphones Steve heard her voice, far off, “May I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you, I was wondering if Har - if, um, Steve’s around.”

Steve jolted up, headphones falling around his neck. 

“Hey!” 

Billy showed up nearly every night after that. Sometimes, he stayed for dinner, but mostly he occupied the same space as Steve, sitting on the opposite side of the couch, nodding as Steve talked and saying a few words here and there, trailing behind Steve to his bedroom when Dad was around, sitting on Steve’s bed, just listening to Steve, or otherwise borrowing Steve’s walkman when Steve ran out of things to say. He always sat the same - cross legged, with his arms hugging himself tightly, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. He reminded Steve of a millipede, curled tight into a defensive ball when you crossed its path.

“It’s weird,” he said to Robin one day at work. “He never says much. Just hangs out. He’s so quiet.”

Robin, sitting on the counter, watching Steve restock the candy jars, shrugged. “So what? Does it bother you?”

“No,” Steve said quickly. “It’s just…”

“Weird?” Robin said with a smirk.

Steve threw a butterscotch at her. 

She caught it, unwrapped it and tossed it into her mouth. 

“Maybe he’s lonely,” she said around the candy. “Maybe he wants to be your friend.”

Steve nodded, at a rare loss for words. _He_ , Steve, was lonely, and he realized that he’d started to look forward to Billy on his couch, his bed, at his dining room table, not saying much but listening, offering small smiles at Steve’s stupid attempts at being funny. The few nights Billy didn’t show up were too quiet, not the good kind but the kind that almost felt like you were drowning in the silence. 

He supposed they were friends, kind of. And that was nice. A friend. Not a friend like Robin, who Steve saw nearly every day now and who he felt like he could truly be himself around. But a friend all the same, someone to talk to and sometimes just sit quietly with. 

“Why me, though?” he asked, capping the lid on the candy jar. He hadn’t meant for it to sound pitiful, but it came out that way. 

Robin pouted at him. “’Cause you’re fun to be around, dingus.”

“I am?” 

He hadn’t thought about that. Billy never had _fun_ when they were together. He smiled sometimes, when Steve said something goofy, but it seemed to be more of a kind smile rather than an amused one. 

He arrived home that night to both his parents, his Dad, still in his suit and tie, sifting through paperwork on the dining room table, his Mom hovering by a pot of something bubbling in the kitchen, wearing a silky robe, wine glass in hand and casting dissatisfied looks at her husband’s back. 

Steve skirted around his father’s smug “how was work” with a quick “good!” and a “smells good, what’s cooking?”, scurrying into the kitchen. 

“Ravioli, dearest,” Mom said, holding out her free arm, pulling Steve into a small, wispy embrace that smelled like chianti. 

“How was the video store?” she asked, turning away, picking up a wooden spoon to give the pasta a stir. 

“Ok.” 

“How’s Robin?” 

“She’s good.” Steve bit his nails, a nervous habit. Mom loved Robin, and once a week liked to encourage Steve to ask her on a date. He didn’t have the desire nor the permission to dissuade her with the truth. 

“And you friend Billy?” 

With the dry half of the wooden spoon his Mom tapped his hand firmly, and he stopped biting his nails, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

There is was again, his friend. His friend Billy. 

“He’s...good.” 

“That’s good, darling.” She patted his shoulder affectionately and turned back to the ravioli. 

They ate in relative silence, Dad still working away and Mom saying nothing, just staring out the window wistfully, wine in hand and taking delicate bites of pasta. Steve shoveled his dinner down, taking his empty plate to the kitchen sink to wash. He wasn’t sure if Billy would come tonight, he hadn’t the night before, and if he didn’t Steve would try not to be too gloomy about it and escape into his room to listen to music and read. Recently, Robin was always referencing _Twelfth Night_ , and Steve wanted to understand who Viola and Olivia were, and why they were meant to be. He’d checked out a copy of the play from the Hawkins Library, but had only managed to struggle through the first few pages. None of the words made sense to him. 

The doorbell rang, echoing throughout the stillness of the house, and Steve quickly shut the water off, wiping his hands on his pants and dashing to the door before his parents could. 

It was Billy, standing in the doorway sheepishly, offering Steve a half smile. 

Steve grinned at him. 

He ushered Billy upstairs, pausing for a moment by the dining room table so Steve’s Mom could say hello, and his Dad could give Billy that curious and suspicious look he always gave him. 

“You hungry?” Steve asked, grabbing Billy’s hand and bounding up the stairs with him. “I could fix you a plate, but I won’t make you sit at the table.” 

They reached the top of the stairs and headed down the hallway to Steve’s room, Billy trailing behind, hand still clasped tightly in Steve’s. 

Steve lowered his voice a touch. “Dad was supposed to work late tonight, so Mom’s annoyed. And he’s in a bad mood, remember that huge golf course outside of Hillside Heights I was telling you about? The buyer backed out at the last minute, so Dad’s pissed and it’s best to not being in the room, or else he’ll start asking you what the hell you’re ever gonna do with your life.”

Steve laughed, a bit bitterly, and Billy didn’t smile, rather tilted his head, blue eyes bright and emotional. 

Steve realized he was still gripping Billy’s hand. He dropped it quickly and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Want to hang out here?”

“Sure,” Billy said quietly. 

They settled into their normal spots in Steve’s room, Steve on one side of the bed and Billy on the other. Steve pulled his walkman out of the bedside table drawer; he’d picked up a few new tapes today that he thought Billy might like. He went to pass it over to Billy, pausing. Billy held the copy of _Twelfth Night_ , flipping through the thin pages, looking thoughtful. 

“Oh,” Steve felt his cheeks turning pink. Billy hadn’t teased him since the start of the summer, but the thought of Steve reading a play, because he barely read any in school even when he was supposed to, was an easy thing to make fun of. 

“You read Shakespeare?” Billy asked curiously. 

“Um, I’m trying to.” Steve chewed on one of his fingernails. “Robin keeps talking about these characters. So I’m trying to get on board, you know. But I don’t, um, I don’t know how to read.”

Billy stared at him. 

“I mean I know how to read! I just don’t know how to read this guy.” He tapped the book in Billy’s hands. _You suck._ _Two for two._

“Shakespeare?” Billy offered. 

“Yeah.”

Billy nodded, turning a page slowly. 

“I _do_ know how to read,” Steve blurted. 

Billy smiled down at the book, eyes crinkling at the corners. It looked nice on him, and Steve’s heart gave a little flutter at that. 

“I know you do,” Billy said. “We had English together.”

“We did,” Steve agreed. It felt like years ago, now. A much different Billy, a slightly different Steve. They’d sat close, it was alphabetical, and Steve spent most of English trying to ignore Billy, who liked to steal his pencils and give Steve that wickedly wide grin every time he caught his eye. 

Billy smiled at him now, neither wicked nor wide but small and sad. 

“Do you ever miss high school?” Steve asked. 

Billy shrugged, looking away. “Sometimes.”

They fell back into silence. Billy’s face looked pale, his eyes far away, and he’d closed the play, abandoning it on his his lap to wrap his arms tightly around himself. Steve felt an overwhelming need to fix things, so he grabbed the walkman beside him and offered it to Billy. Billy looked at it, arms still wrapped around his middle. 

“I got some new music today. Well, not new, but stuff I didn’t have. I like it though! I played it at work today and Keith didn’t turn it off, so that’s a good sign.”

Billy took the walkman, shoulders loosening, and Steve smiled. He liked seeing Billy relax, it made Steve feel as though he was helping in some way, doing something important with his life, even though it was something he could never impress his Dad with, it still felt special. 

He thought of Duke Orsino, that first speech he kept reading over and over because he could barely understand the first lines. 

“If music be the food of love,” he said dramatically, punching a fist in the air. “Rock on!”

Billy stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then laughed, really laughed, clutching his stomach and shaking with it. It sounded strange, rusty and unused, but it was there, and it made Steve’s heart feel bigger. 

“Are you sure,” Billy wheezed after a moment, wiping a tear from his eye. “Are you sure he says ‘rock on’?”

“I’m sure!” Steve grabbed the book, feeling giddy. “See here! Here - ‘if music be the food of love’ - oh. ‘ _Play_ on’.” 

He frowned at the opening line, while Billy chuckled at his side. “It would’ve been better if he said ‘rock on’.”

“It would’ve,” Billy agreed. 

Steve smiled, feeling his face heat up. He liked the sound of Billy's laugh, as much as he liked the look of Billy's smile, but, rarely, he didn't blurt that thought out. It didn't feel right, and he'd hate for the happiness in Billy's eyes to dissipate in shyness or self-consciousness. 

"Well, here," he said after a moment, patting the walkman in Billy's hand. Their fingers brushed, both warm, slightly sweaty, and Billy looked up at Steve, smile fading just a hint, licking his lips. Steve swallowed thickly and pulled his hand away, steadying it on his book. 

"Here," Steve repeated. "Rock on."

Billy's lips twitched, and _there,_ his eyes crinkled at the corners again, and Steve put a metaphorical tic mark under "Steve Harrington: you rule". 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
